Arlet looks at me, almost wary. “The first thirty years of my life, I was confined to the same small area. Then Estela brought me with her to Enduvida. The journey was… brutal. We were cold. Poorly dressed. Some of us were whipped along the way. I don’t remember much of the scenery.”
She lets out a long breath, then looks up again.
“Enduvida was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. More beautiful than any glimpse of finery I saw in Zlosa. But now I’ve seen the sunrise, and the way the forest looks covered in mist, and living trees that morph themselves into what seems to be an entire town, and I can’t help but think the under mountain’s beauty has its rivals,” her lip curls at the corners.
I like the way she speaks. It’s poetic—and I liked reading the poets of old. But she still speaks like she’s doing something wrong.
“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” I ask. “There are many beautiful places around the world. No enduar would fault you for that.”
“Because I owe everything to your people. I feel ungrateful for even considering to love anything else. And…” she pauses. “The only reason I am seeing any of this is because of something I did that was wrong. Perhaps, even more than what I just said, I feel guilty for seeing anything lovely when I did something so awful, such a short time ago.”
Well, fuck.That first part, about gratitude sounds exactly like something I used to say. I had been such an ass back then.
“Arlet, do you think you are ungrateful because of ideas I used to spout?”
She shakes her head, but then pauses. “Perhaps in part, but I felt it before you said anything. I guess… it is simply how I see things.”
I exhale, then lean forward. A few lines from my favorite poet, Lo’Niht come to my mind. I translate the words from memory.
“Regret clings too easily, like burrs in the hem of a weary traveler?—
A weight that asks nothing but to be carried.
But beauty? Beauty is lighter, fleeting, slipping through open hands,
Yet it does not demandto be earned.
It simply is.
You have walked far enough beneath heavy skies, let your step, for once, fall upon something soft.”
Arlet goes entirely still, but her gaze is unyielding as she watches me. There is a slight crease between her brows as she considers the words.
“That was… beautiful. What is a man like you, the Butcher’s Cleaver, doing reading poetry?” she teases.
I huff a laugh. “I know for a fact you can weave, sew, teach, read, write, heal, and cook. You do not need to be just one thing, why should I?”
A smile stretches over her face. “And the paintings at the Mating Journey?”
It’s my turn to pause. “Those were…”
I don’t know what to say. I’d brought some of my recent pieces, and there had been one of her. I hadn’t set out to make the paintingof her, per se. But it came out beautifully.
“You have unusual hair,” I murmur. “It pairs well with other colors.”
Her brows shoot up, surprised. “That is so sweet. Are there any other parts of me you’d like to paint?”
My mind goes dangerous places before circling back to a simpler answer. I lift my hands, pointing to her freckles. “Your spots.”
Her smile vanishes, and she brings a hand up to cover them.
“What?” I ask.
“Humans don’t—well, technically, I didn’t think anyone liked sunspots. They are blemishes. Ugly. I try to cover them.”
I frown, pushing onto my knees to position myself in front of her. She draws back as I assess her face. “They are not, and you shouldn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, but I don’t move. It is lovely here, close to her. Maybe it’s the room, but I feel warm with her.